Los versos de Poe más que rimar, resuenan. For Annie BY EDGAR ALLAN POE Thank Heaven! the crisis, The danger, is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last— And the fever called "Living" Is conquered at last. Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full length— But no matter!—I feel I am better at length. And I rest so composedly, Now, in my bed, That any beholder Might fancy me dead— Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead. The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart:—ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing! The sickness—the nausea— The pitiless pain— Have ceased, with the fever That maddened my brain— With the fever called "Living" That burned in my brain. And oh! of all tortures That torture the worst Has abated—the terrible Torture of thirst For the naphthal